


Mela

by xxStarryEyedDreamerxx



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Ancient Greece, Arranged Marriage, But now I'm at peace because Philomela got to tell her story. I love her so much, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Meeting the Parents, Menoetus is a Dick, Minor Character Death, Older Man/Younger Woman, Period-Typical Sexism, Philomela Ships it, Quote: It was a death experience. And I'm over it., References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Reunions, She Deserved Better, Such a Queen, Suicidal Thoughts, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxStarryEyedDreamerxx/pseuds/xxStarryEyedDreamerxx
Summary: PhilomelaFew would remember her in history. Why bother to tell such a story when surely there were more exciting stories to tell? She, like most women in myth, was written off as just another faceless woman in Greece, whose only merit was that she had given birth to a Greek hero.Yet it’s time for her story to be told. For her to be known more than just as the mother of Patroclus.If just a part of it.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Philomela & Patroclus, Philomela/Menoetius
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68





	Mela

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for various reasons. 1) While rereading the Song of Achilles something about Philomela struck out to me, Patroclus mentions a star-shaped scar at his mother's temple. This got my brain whirling with ideas for her backstory, what if she suffered from an accident? 2) The second thing is that Patroclus has a fond memory of his mother when they went to the beach if his mother was so simple how could she navigate to the beach without Menoetius catching them. And how did she know he was gone? 3) Philomela despite her inability to communicate made sure that Patroclus knows he is loved. 4) I wanted to add a woman's perspective. For the moment they are born in Ancient Greece, women are told marriage and children are you're only ways to be happy. Something women today still hear. Philomela walks the line in her own way. She finds happiness in her way, through her own merits. 5) Patroclus had to get his smarts from somewhere :) Honestly I could go on all night but basically I just wanted to write a story about my favorite character's mother who also became my favorite character too.

On the night she came into the world, she did so raging along with a storm. One that threatened to sink everything and everyone on her tiny island.

Yet, she quieted and so did the storm. Her parents name her Philomela because her cries harmonized with the storm. 

_ Sweet singer. _

They named her with the hope she would live up to it, a soother of storms. Obedient. 

_ _______________________________________________________________ _

As she grew so did her wonder and that her every curiosity was indulged. She was provided the best tutors, tutors who did more than teach her how to be a wife. 

Philosophers, mathematicians, artists, all came through her father’s court. Everything, she wanted to absorb everything. Know everything, go to all the fantastic places listed in her books. Be like the heroes of old. 

It was silly of her, for one day her father would send her away to marry. Yet for now, she simply dreamed. 

Dreamed of a better life. A more exciting one.

  
  


At age ten, she made a fatal mistake. Suggesting to her father that she should rule. He had all but laughed in her face

> “I have indulged you by giving you one of the finest educations a princess can obtain, yet.” His eyes glinted darkly, “I see now I have made a grave mistake in letting you run wild. Now you spout nonsense about traveling and choosing whom you marry. You are a woman and it is time that you behaved as such. Learn your place, Philomela or by the Gods, you will regret it.”

That marked the end of her education, and on another level fractured her relationship with her father. He had always prided himself on being fair and ready to see reason especially when it came to her. She didn’t recognize this strange man who called himself her father.

Obedient, of course she could be obedient and learn a woman’s place. What did it matter? Learning a woman’s place had earned her mother an early grave. Her poor mother had died with her younger brother all because to rule you needed a cock. Philomela did not have one but she had the next best thing, her wit.

So what if her father had driven away all her tutors, she was going to learn in other ways. 

Was it so wrong to want more, more than just the promise of dying in childbirth for a husband that would replace you in a matter of months? She wanted to matter, she wanted to…be seen.

* * *

She is fourteen when she falls in love. It had been nothing like the poems or stories, it had crept up on her unaware.

Kallias served as one of her father’s warriors, highly skilled with a sword. Just as his name suggested he was beautiful, but there was something about him that other men didn’t seem to possess. He seemed more open to listening to her and her wild ideas, never judging just waiting patiently for her. Thoughts that women could be more than just wives and mothers that they could be more.

He sounded amused, yet she didn’t feel as if he was mocking her, “You mean like the Amazon women. For women to be known for their battle strategies is this what you mean?.”

“Well, ye-no. Actually-” Those women were warriors, she had no training or skill. Kallias just grinned at her, his hazel eyes twinkling. She could feel he was holding back a laugh at her expense instead.

“Princess if you wanted to learn the sword all you had to do was ask.” He said, tossing her a practice sword. It fumbled to the ground, but he tilted his head for her to pick it up. She hesitated for all but a moment.

  
  


So she did, those first few days were brutal, her hands stung from the popped blisters, but she felt empowered. They trained away from private eyes, yet she never felt unsafe in his presence. 

  
  


It happened on a warm spring afternoon when neither of them had expected it.

  
  


A kiss.

  
  


“A well-rounded education isn’t complete without a mastery of weapons,” he teased, adjusting her bow. Her sword work wasn’t terrible, but a bow or dagger felt more at home in her hands. Kallias had told her to play to her strengths.

“You say that as if I’m terrible at the sword.” Philomela couldn’t help but rise to his taunt, “then what does that say about your teaching.” Releasing the arrow, it whipped through the air finding rest in the target. 

“Hmm, I must not be that bad of a teacher if you can hit the target. Just imagine if you were on the battlefield, you would be down right deadly.” His breath ghosted at her ear, as he placed another arrow in her hand.

Already she felt her cheeks warming from his body heat, “Aim again,” he continued, obvious to her red face and thumping heart.

“The first one was pure luck.” Instead of aiming for the target, tilted her head so that his lips were right near her cheek. 

Then the bow dropped into the grass as she grasped his face, taking in his surprised expression.

Hazel eyes widened, flushed cheeks, she would say it was a rather good look on him, “Princess?”

“Yes?!” she started to regret having been so bold. The thought had been for nothing their lips inched closer and closer together slowly as if giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

* * *

They were playing a dangerous game, but neither of them realized just how much. She was to be wedded. When she did not know, knowing her father he was glad to be rid of her after his new queen gave him a son. 

“He praised your beauty, I think you will be married come this fall. What do you think, daughter?” Her father asked, turning to her. 

Philomela could have scoffed now he asked her opinion, smothering her displeasure plastered on a smile “Wonderful, father. I think a wedding held in spring would be much more lovely. Please father, I had hoped for a wedding with the flowers blossoming.”

Menoetius, while thankfully near her age, unnerved her. The last time they met he did little but stare at her-no it was if he was undressing her with his very eyes. It was obvious he would not be a kind husband, hoping she would be obedient in bed and bear his squealing little heirs. If not- the thought brought a chill to her, her only choice was to escape. Time all she needed to do was bid her time.

He considered this, “Yes you’ll be fifteen then, I think another year would not hurt. Surely he can wait for my beautiful Philomela.” 

Yes more time for her to wriggle out of this arrangement. 

Bowing slightly, to her father, “Thank you father.” He dismissed her. Bowing one last time, she let her hair hide her expression.

_ Truly, father. _

They had named her sweet singer for nothing. For all that fell from her tongue would be honey glazed poison all she had to do was weave them and like songs they would fall on willing ears.

* * *

Words were more powerful than one realized. For the moment words are spoken, they are truths, lies, half-truths,half-lies, songs, poems, ties that bind. 

Kallias had damned them both the moment he said, “Marry me, Mela. Run away with me.” His hazel eyes shining as he cupped her cheek. 

“Be mine and I’ll be yours.”

“I-.” She wanted to tell him that it was foolish, that she couldn’t but the words wouldn’t come. Not when his love was so earnest. 

Yet, the words tumbled so quickly from her lips,“Yes.” All she wanted was to be his and all he wanted was to be hers. If giving up everything for the unknown future was foolish then she didn’t want to be rational. Kallias saw her, he saw her heart.

“Really Mela, my Mela.” By the Gods and she had thought her tongue deadly, he was so open and free with his love. 

“Yes.” She sealed their vow with a kiss.

  
  


Promises were easy to make and break but so much harder to keep. 

Under the cover of nightfall, she hurried down the steps, he was waiting for her at the entrance of the gate. In a few moments the guards would close the gates. She could only hope that she would make it in time. She would be free.

“Philomela. Stop this instant.” Her blood ran cold, no it couldn’t be. Just as when he had stopped her education, he was going to stop this too. No, no she wouldn’t let him. They fought and he slapped her, but she pulled away.

She hurrying to get away from him when suddenly she was pulled back. 

He had her by the hair, struggling against his grip she miscalculated the step and suddenly she was falling. Falling, falling, it almost felt like mercy when she finally touched the ground, and darkness took her.

When she awakened, found that awareness came in hazes, everything was hot. Tossing and turning gave her no relief from the heat that seemed to engulf her body. It was scorching, vaguely she felt the cool rags placed at her forehead however it wasn’t long before until those too burned like flames. 

She was dying, that much she knew was true. All she could pray for was that Hades would take her sooner rather than later.

Yet she didn’t die, it had taken weeks to rise from her bed. Weeks of fever and torment. Weeks of laying in the dark wondering what happened to him.

Deep in her heart she already knew, if her father was willing to try to beat her to death then there was no hope for him. By the Gods how she longed to weep, but found that it hurt too much to simply do that. 

_ Mela _

One by one tears fell of their own accord. 

_ Mela, I love you. _

_ Run away with me. _

It hurt, the agony of it. It was like pouring salt in her already torn and bloodied heart. He was dead but his voice was so clear in his mind. His face, his smile. He was gone. Just gone.

* * *

By fifteen, she is married. 

Standing at the altar, she blankly stared at her veil. Today is not one of her most lucid days, nor would she have wanted it any other way. 

The wedding is a quick and rushed affair, her husband is eager to unveil her. She could tell by the way his greedy hand wretched off her veil. He hadn’t even had the decency to wait until the feast.

Philomena didn’t even flinch as light flittered into her vision, taking in his disgust at her dull eyes. 

She smiled.

* * *

At sixteen she becomes a mother.

The child unwillingly placed in her womb. All of her husband’s talk of taking lovers had been empty. He stole to her bed when it pleased him and took his liberties as he wished. Even with her mind scrambled, she was lovely enough and men couldn’t help but think with their cocks. To exercise what power they thought they possessed over those perceived as weaker than them. 

So for months she struggled with pregnancy, wishing for it to end for. For hers and the child sakes, they couldn’t be happy living with such a miserable man. Then slowly she began to love the little one in her belly, with them there she didn’t feel so alone. Joy began to replace the horror of what had been done to her. All she wanted was to hold her baby, love him or her as much as she was able. She wanted to live if only for the child.

  
  


Unlike her own birth, he was quiet for a moment before wailing his displeasure at the coldness of the room. What she could glimpse of him in the midwife’s arms he had taken most of her features. Inky curls and her dark skin. Stretching out her arms, she wanted to hold him just this once. If they took him now, she would never hold him again. Menoetius would make sure of it. 

One of the midwives moved away and swaddled something, a moment later a pillow was placed in her arms. A pillow, heat built up behind her eyes, a pillow her mind repeated. She could only cradle it in sorrow, a replacement for the baby she would never hold.

* * *

_ Glory to the Father _

Patroclus he is named, and then he was whisked away to be raised by nannies and tutors. Philomela wept for days after he was taken, what could she do. She had no way to advocate her sanity which on a day could widely shift, speaking was hard to do as her tongue would not move except to make noise. Vague grunts and moans nothing resembling words, it never ceased to frustrate her. So he grows up away from her.

  
  


She rarely ever gets to see him outside scheduled and supervised visits as he is the heir to his father’s kingdom. He is the reason that her husband no longer bothers her for another child. Healthy and robust, if a bit thin, but she herself had always been slight. Patroclus favours her, all the court whispers. He does, but she finds he takes more after his grandmother than her completely, as his curls are darker and wilder and his cheeks are higher. However his eyes and freckles are all hers. 

Apparently he favors her greatly in how well he does in his studies. He loves mathematics and literature, never before has she been so grateful for gossiping maids. Without them she would never know of her little boy. 

* * *

At twenty-four.

Her son hates her, and she doesn’t blame him for she loves him just the same. How could he ever know the truth, that she was all but trapped in her mind. 

It is as if the Gods mock her for on days he does visit. She can do little but smile and blink. Patroclus her son views her with little veiled disgust, no doubt his father’s poisoning at work. Yet, he is not cruel to her, for he seems to pity her. They were both at Menoetius’ mercy. Her son more so, her husband beat her son for any little thing, taking out his frustration at having a slow yet beautiful wife. What was the point if she was little more than an empty pretty made up doll. A healthy but in his eyes useless son who focused little on athletics and more time in books.

How she wishes she could have more lucid days, days where she could try to communicate with him, comfort him. So she tries humming to him lullabies her mother once sang to her, and slowly the disgust and pity leave his eyes. He often says little but comes closer to her to rest his head in her lap as she pets his hair. These moments were so precious to her, she wouldn’t trade them for the world. Her child, her little Patroclus.

___________________________________________

On one particular day her son comes to visit her, the Gods are smiling upon her. Her mind feels clear for once so she gestures as well as she can to the window overlooking the shore.

Her clever son understands and together hand and hand they march to the beach. There are servants milling in the background, but she focuses solely on her son. 

How his eyes turned to liquid under the Sun’s bright rays, she could only marvel at how tall he had gotten. Philomela knelt down for just a moment, there was a flurry of movement behind her to reach her but her son came over first. 

“Mother are you alright?” She hummed letting him know she was okay. Finishing taking off her sandals let the sand fully sink around her toes, the tide was coming in. 

Patroclus joined her and they took in the sunset over the sea, casting everything awash in reds, oranges, and purples.

They stood there for a while until stars began to dot up over the horizon. Her son bowed to her promising to visit her again. She smiled at him.

_ Of course my son. _

* * *

Patroclus is eight, and Philomela is dying. There is nothing she can do about it, her time has come. After all her wishing, all she can do is feel regret, regret that she was leaving her son all alone to fend for himself against that heartless monster. Against the world.

Taking her final breath, she prays to any God above that her son would be happy. That is all she could ask for.

* * *

Dying isn’t painful as people describe it, more like a relief. Nor is the Underworld as dark and gloomy as the stories make of it. 

Here she is free. Free to be reunited with her mother and brother. 

Free to….

“ _ Mela.” _

* * *

Philomela was meticulous in counting her time since she had come to the Underworld. Everytime a war was mentioned she worried that one day she would see her son among the newly arrived. Even if she was eager to see him again, all she wanted to know was that if he lived a good life, if he had fallen in love, gotten married, had grandchildren. Yet, nothing.

Wars came and went still nothing, yet one day she happened to ask a soldier about the most recent war. The Trojan War that had sent so many young souls to Hades.

“Excuse me,” she asked, touching the young man’s shoulder. He appeared to be distressed, so many of them came crying or in pain, but he looked up at her dry eyes. So she pressed on, “Have you heard of Patroclus? Son of Menoetius.”

His whole being seemed to light up, “Yes, have you seen him? I’m searching for him too.” The young soldier trailed off quietly, “He should be here….”

She shook her head, “I only ask because I’m his mother. I have missed him for so long and now I’m finally able to speak to him.”

He appeared to be surprised by her admission, “Yes, of course how could I have not seen it. You both look so much alike.”

“Did you know my son well?” Aha finally someone who knew of her little boy. However if it was true then her son could have very well died in battle. 

“Yes, my lady. I did he was…” his cheerful demeanor appeared to dim. Before she could lose him she pleaded with him to tell her everything about him.

“Then would you mind telling me of him. Please.” Even if it was just crumbs she wanted to know him, and then she would hear it all over again when she saw him again.

From the soldier she learned that Menoiteus had exiled him to Pthita for a supposed murder of another boy. Part of her was horrified that he would so cruelly cast out her child only a year after her death. Another part of her was relieved that he had escaped her ex-husband.

“Was he happy there?” she asked him.

His emerald eyes twinkled, “I should hope so. He says the years spent there were his happiest.”

“I’m glad.”

Then he told of the war, how her son used his skills taught by the great Chiron, trainer to demigods. 

“He saved lives, men who did not expect to see the next day, drawn back from the brink of death. He was admired by many.”

“What of love? Was he loved?” At this the soldier’s eyes filled with tears.

“He is loved, this I can promise you. I love him, he is my very soul.” Philomela did not press him for any more stories and the young man sobbed in her arms for what felt like days. 

Achilles, she came to know. He had been ashamed to tell her his name for what he perceived as a betrayal to her son. Born a demigod, was her son’s lover. She approved, her son had excellent taste. Handsome, polite, and adored the very ground her son walked on. All that a mother could want for her child.

“I was selfish, I didn’t realize what I had until it was too late. I would trade it all if I could see him again hold him again, my lady.” No doubt the Gods had a hand in had occurred most of the wars reeked of a child’s chess game.

“None of this my lady, call me Philomela. My son loves you and I too think of you as my family. Come meet the others, my son has not come yet, but I feel that he will come soon. So come Achilles, he would not want you to sit here and grieve.”

“My lady, I’m not worthy of your-” she stopped him grabbing him. What a funny sight they must have made, a waifish woman dragging a full-grown warrior back to where her family waited.

She turned back, giving him what Kallias called her “you must obey me for you will never win smile.” She hoped Patroclus had at least inherited it.

“Nonsense, he loves you enough to die for you then we will love you too. There is nothing one can do when he sets his mind to something, none can stop him. I once labored with him for days because he was a stubborn little thing. We will not condemn you nor will he. He loves you.”

“I-,” Hmm, he wasn’t fully convinced. No matter, she had one last card to play.

“You have told me your stories, would you like to hear mine?”

“Stories of Patroclus.” His tone held a wistful longing. 

“He was a very chubby babe, and stubborn too. Did I tell you that I was in labor for days with him…”

Achilles fits nicely in with her family. Kallias took him under his wing, they both spent hours talking strategy and weapons. Her mother cooked for him and her little brother piled his arms with toys. She still went out speaking with the newly dead. Nothing yet.

But she knew more of her son and had his very heart.

* * *

Days, weeks, months, and years passed. 

Achilles was anxious but she would not tell him just how long it had been.

A millennium or two give or take. She knew it only based on how the newly arrived would speak and dress. Why wasn’t her son here? Achilles said they had been buried together but they had not arrived together. All of them had doubts but they dared not speak them around Achilles. The poor dear was already so guilty and grief-stricken. Patroclus had not been buried properly so perhaps that was the delay. Yet she wasn’t going to give up hope.

Then one day Achilles startled them all when he suddenly ran off. He truly lived up to his name with those swift feet of his. Philomela followed him as quickly as she could.

At the river, Achilles embraced; a dark skin youth with curly hair. There is only one person whom he would embrace like so.

“Patroclus,” she called out, disturbing the couple. Achilles finally let her son’s feet touch the ground against. My~my how passionate.

He turned to face her and tears fell. Here was her son all grown up, strikingly tall and slim, their same dark eyes. She now noticed the blood marrying his tunic at the abdomen. A gruesome death, however the signs would fade in time.

Reaching for his hands, noted the rough nature of them. Hands that had saved but also ended lives, her baby.

“Mother.” His voice was so different compared to its once soft lilt, but he was her son. Finally she could hold her son and this time.

“I’m sorry-”

“Ssh, my love,” drawing him so that he could hear her heartbeat, “you didn’t know you were too young and I couldn’t tell you.”

“I’ve missed you so much my son and,” his eyes were damp when she drew back, “I’m sure you have much to discuss with me. However it has come to my attention that you are keeping a very handsome man waiting. He has been waiting for a long time.”  _ Not as long as me but he is so grief-stricken just as fresh as the day her son died. His love never wavering, and besides who was she to stand in the way of soulmates. _

“Mother-.” Dare she say he sounded embarrassed. 

“Go on.” She chided all but shoving him into the demigod’s arms. 

The way they took each other's hands so gently, she startled when Kallias wrapped his arm around her. 

“He favors you,” he whispered. 

“He does.” Thank the Gods for small mercies, even at his age she could still only see her mother and herself reflected in him. 

“No wonder Achilles is so mad for him. A face of such beauty and kindness few can resist.” She whacked him slightly in the ribs, he coughed a bit.

“Be nice and if my son is handsome then that is no crime. He is my son so of course he inherited both my good looks and wit.” 

“And besides you’re one to talk,” she added just to make a point. The reunited couple kissed as if they would disappear once more. 

“They’re soulmates, tell me you didn’t feel it. The way he knew he was coming.”

“I did, Mela.”

After all these years, she finally had everything. Her family was whole once more(Menoiteus and her father could rot in the very pits of Tartarus for all she cared) and they had welcomed a new addition. She had never wished for power or riches but this. A woman could never wish for more than dutifully keeping house and raising her children. A sentiment she had heard throughout her life. Sure she had a few missteps in her life, but she in her own way had broken the mold. 

Happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical/Lore fact: While searching for more information about Philomela. It turns out there are three other women debated to have been Patroclus' mother: Periopis, daughter of Pheres, founder of Pherae; Polymele, daughter of Peleus, King of Phthia and an older half-sister to Achilles (I guess that makes Achilles, Patroclus' uncle. Squicky😲😲); Sthenele, daughter of Acastus and Astydameia. In some accounts, Damocrateia, daughter of Aegina, and Zeus.
> 
> All jokes aside don't reread the Song of Achilles for the third time, unless you like suffering. In that case, come join me. 😅😅😅  
> Don't do it.


End file.
